


Chabouillet's Protégé

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Abuse of Authority, Age Difference, Blow Jobs, Forced Prostitution, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Obedience, Sexual Slavery, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-15
Updated: 2017-04-15
Packaged: 2018-10-19 06:29:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10634190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: Javert thinks his patron has saved him from life as a sex slave. Little does he know Chabouillet's plans...





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Verabird](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Verabird/gifts).



“That one over there. What about him?”

The slave handler could only barely bite back a derisive sound as he turned. Javert's face burned.

“That one? Not for you, monsieur. He's a mutt—came to us from Toulon. Father's a galley-slave. He isn't even fit to shine your shoes. No, for your offices I had in mind—”

“I will take a look at him.” The man's words were firm.

He spoke like a man used to being obeyed, and from his position kneeling on the floor, Javert had a good look at his boots of fine, polished leather. He ached to look up and see for himself who this man was who had had the slave handler in a flutter all day, but Javert valued his own obedience too high to even contemplate such an affront.

“Look up, boy,” the stranger commanded.

When Javert raised his head, the man took hold of his chin, tilting his face this way and that for a critical look.

“Young, but he might yet grow into those bones,” he muttered. “He'll be tall.”

“He can write and read, monsieur,” the slave handler now hurriedly assured him. “But he has never—”

“How old are you, boy?” the man asked.

Javert blinked, overwhelmed by the aura of power that surrounded the man. Javert had never been this close to someone so richly dressed before. The man wore gloves of soft leather that was smooth against his cheek, and Javert could smell an expensive cologne.

“Sixteen, monsieur,” he said obediently, something within him contracting with an aching pull. If he could be sold to a man like this... if he could serve a man like this, if he could prove himself, if—

“What's your name?”

“Javert,” he replied, still staring into the eyes of the man who watched him with a strange, intense detachment—as if he were a thing to be purchased, which he certainly was, but also as if Javert were of more worth than the slave handler, who was a free man and a citizen, an elector even, one of the richest merchants of the town.

“And what do you want, Javert?”

Stunned, Javert remained silent. No one had ever asked him such a thing before.

Instead of taking it as an affront, the man laughed, soft and amused. “Come now. Everyone wants something.”

“I want to serve, monsieur,” Javert said. “I want to be good and obedient and prove myself to my master.”

“Ambition,” the man murmured. His thumb drew along Javert's chin. “Interesting. Add this one to my list.”

His lips twisted into a smile, at the same time as his hand reached out and buried itself in Javert’s hair. He gripped roughly, so that tears shot into Javert's eyes, but Javert did not make a sound as he looked obediently up into the stranger's face.

"You can be trained?"

"Yes, monsieur," Javert said eagerly even through the pain, imagining for a moment the opportunities that might arise from serving such a powerful man. He knew what the slave handler thought he would sell for: a pleasure slave, or something lower than that, a toy to be fucked and cast away.

But instead, if he was given a chance to serve this man, who had come to search for slaves for his office, if Javert could prove himself diligent and obedient and devote himself to perfecting everything he was taught, then surely even someone like Javert could rise into a position above his own kind.

"My man will collect him tomorrow," his new master said, releasing Javert's hair at last.

Just like that, he left, the slave handler hurrying past him, neither of them wasting a single look on Javert who remained kneeling on the floor, obedient and overwhelmed, until half an hour later one of the slave handler's assistants ushered him off to scrub him down and give him clean clothes.

***

Serving M. Chabouillet was not what Javert had expected. He had feared him at first—a slave need always fear his master, and M. Chabouillet was a powerful man. And yet, as much as he feared and worshipped the man who had bought him, he rarely saw him. He was not stripped and led to his master's bedroom, nor tied to a stable to be used and abused, or sent to offer himself to guests.

Instead, Javert was given clean clothes of better quality than anything he had possessed in his life, a narrow bed of his own in a room that slept ten apprentices, and long lessons from early in the morning until late in the afternoon.

Javert made no friends among the other boys learning alongside him, but he barely thought about them enough to remember their names. As unbelievable as it seemed, by all appearances M. Chabouillet had decided to have him trained as a law clerk. He, Javert, sold as the lowest of sex slaves, was spending long hours sitting on a bench surrounded by books worth more than he had ever possessed, and every day, a teacher taught him everything a clerk would need to know.

It was baffling. Javert had at first barely dared to believe it—but when there was no outcry, when he was given a bed and food and lessons every day without someone realizing that they had made a terrible mistake in training a sex slave with the clerks, he realized that what must have happened instead was that M. Chabouillet had purchased him for exactly this: to make him into a clerk rather than a whore.

At that point, Javert ruthlessly squashed all doubt. It was not for him to question a superior. He had been given an order: to learn. He would learn and eat and sleep and learn again, to the best of his abilities, and waste not a single moment of what he was given with doubt. He would please his master, and be the best clerk Chabouillet could have bought, and never give him reason for regret.

***

Javert did not know when he had arrived at this school, but it was exactly one year later, in fact, that a letter arrived, and he was called away.

For the first time in his life, Javert entered the halls of the Prefecture. The marble floors and large, echoing hallways would have intimidated even the most forward clerk, but Javert clung to the certainty that he had been given an order, and that it was not for him to worry whether his presence in such a grand place was unwanted.

When he gave his name, a man led him to the office of M. Chabouillet. There, Javert knocked, a wave of relief welling up within him after all when it was the familiar voice of his patron and master that bid him enter.

Chabouillet was not alone. Javert filed that observation away along with the other facts: that Chabouillet was clad in a fine, brown frock coat today with an embroidered, golden waistcoat, that there were paintings on the walls of his office, and that Chabouillet's desk was kept very orderly, despite the amount of work that without a doubt went through this office on any given day.

“Monsieur,” he said and bowed, grateful for the clean clothes he had been given along with his food and his bed, but made once more painfully aware of how far beneath these men of power he was. In the school, among the other clerks, it was easier to forget that he was a slave, the son of a galley-slave, and that, if his patron had not bought him, he would be offering up his arse to every paying stranger right now.

“Javert. I hear your teachers are very pleased with you,” Chabouillet said and motioned him closer.

“I strive to make my patron proud,” Javert said, his heart beating faster in his chest. He was standing next to his master now, who was currently reclining in his chairs, looking calm and relaxed although his eyes were very sharp as he eyed Javert.

“I have no doubt that you will,” Chabouillet said. “I have always had an eye for investment.”

On the other side of the desk, the man sitting there was straightening. Javert did not dare to take his eyes from Chabouillet, standing straight and motionless like a soldier as his patron looked him up and down—but then Chabouillet's grasped his waist and turned him, so that he faced the desk, and the man sitting there.

“My newest project. What do you think?” Chabouillet asked. “I purchased him at the Montmartre market. A starving wolf pup—I had in mind to make a watchdog out of him.”

The stranger sighed, although Javert noted the way his eyes raked up and down his body.

“You disappoint me, André. Are there not more pleasurable ways to spend your money? Even betting on a dog fight or two would give me more entertaining than watching you rear a clerk. Have we not enough of your minions underfoot? Why, sometimes I believe that it is you who runs the Prefecture, and not me!”

Chabouillet's hands did not tighten at the reply, although Javert half thought that it must have been an insult—or perhaps a threat. But when Chabouillet spoke again, his voice was light, as though they had been jesting.

“The ways I spend my money are my own. You know I am not the sort of man to lose my money betting on a dog—or a wolf, at that. No. I invest only when I am assured of the success.”

“And when it will enrich your own aspirations, André.” The man’s earlier censure turned to wry amusement. “And I should not complain, your aspirations serve me well. Sometimes I think you will still hold this post when I am dead and gone, and ten of my successors have passed through these halls.”

“Let's hope that won't happen for a long, long time,” Chabouillet said.

Javert was still standing motionless, all obedience, trying to clear his mind from the fog of the conversation he could not quite grasp. The concerns of powerful men and their amusement was beyond him; he had been called here, and served at the pleasure of his master, who had given him a chance any slave in his position would have killed for. Javert would gladly listen to these men banter for weeks, if it was demanded of him.

“Now, as to that promotion for one of your protégés you asked of me...”

“It would benefit you too. In the long run,” Chabouillet said, then shrugged. “In any case, it would not harm you. Is not a hardworking secretary an asset?”

“It would please you too much,” the man said, narrowing his eyes. “That alone is reason enough not to do it. God knows there is nothing in my office that goes on if you have not willed it.”

“Which does benefit you as well.” Chabouillet laughed softly. “But of course, I thought I'd sweeten the deal. I could not demand Dumont to come here, of course... but surely there are other ways I could convince you of the general talent of my protégés.”

The man snorted. Javert felt something tighten in his stomach as the man's eyes looked him up and down once more. They lingered, this time, studying him with the detached interest of a man offered a horse to purchase—or a slave.

No, Javert told himself even as his heart thudded painfully fast in his chest Chabouillet would not sell him. He had bought him, and then invested money in his training. Javert had learned the law and how to deal with important letters. He was an investment; Chabouillet had called him here to show off his progress and impress his own superior...

“He's a virgin,” Chabouillet said with a directness that made shock spread icy cold through Javert's limbs, even as the other man laughed and leaned back in his chair.

“There. You do know how to make a deal; forgive me, André, I should have known.”

One of Chabouillet's hands pressed against his back. “Javert. Let Monsieur Dubois look at you.”

Slowly, Javert stepped forward, feeling sick to his stomach as the man's smile widened. Nevertheless, Javert was obedient; none of his distaste showed as he halted in front of the man.

He should never have expected more, he told himself. He was Chabouillet's possession, after all. To be taught among the other clerks had been a great privilege; that Chabouillet would also want what someone of Javert's lineage was predestined for was no wonder. He should have expected it.

He would not struggle, he told himself. He would have to make Chabouillet proud even in this. He would—

He found himself turned and pushed down onto the desk with a suddenness that made him gasp. His trousers were pulled down; he did not move, even though shame heated his cheeks.

Dubois’s cane pushed his thighs apart; humiliated, Javert allowed them to spread. The knob of the cane rubbed against his hole, and now Javert gasped.

“He does look untouched.” Dubois sounded amused. “Really, Chabouillet, where do you find your pets?”

“You wouldn't believe what I paid for him,” Chabouillet said. “Of course, I did have to invest in his training.”

“The wrong training, if you ask me,” Dubois muttered.

Javert heard the sound of trousers being unbuckled. A heartbeat later, the man’s cock was pressed to his thigh, hard and hot.

“I do like them like this,” Dubois murmured, a hand stroking up Javert’s flank. “All lanky and skittish. Say the truth, André, did you pick him just for me?”

Softly, Chabouillet laughed. When Javert dared at last to raise his head, he found Chabouillet watching him, his expression vaguely fond.

“I do like them lanky and skittish myself,” Chabouillet said. “And eager to please. That, I like most of all.”

Chabouillet reached out, one elegant hand trailing down Javert’s cheek. There was something very kind in Chabouillet’s eyes, and Javert felt the ice that had gripped his stomach melt all of a sudden, heat springing up where his patron touched him.

Then Dubois spit into his hand, slicked up his cock, and a heartbeat later, pushed into Javert.

Javert clenched his teeth at the pain, his eyes brimming with tears. Helplessly, he tried to blink them away. His hole was clenching around the thick cock that sought to force its way inside him, and one of Dubois’s hand had come to heavily rest on his back, keeping him pinned in place.

Chabouillet's thumb gently brushed along his eye. “You are eager to please me, aren't you, Javert?” he murmured.

Dubois had begun thrusting into him now. The pain was not so bad, Javert told himself even as he nodded at Chabouillet. He had been beaten before. This was painful and humiliating, but it was what he knew he had been sold for. The fault was not with these men taking this from him. The fault was his own, to dare to think that he was spared such a thing. Had he thought himself above it? Had he become proud? He was not Chabouillet's equal. He had been bought by him. It was his duty to surrender to whatever his master asked of him—and to show his gratefulness, for he had been given a bed and food and an education.

Chabouillet's thumb wiped away another tear. Dubois pushed deep into him with every thrust. Javert's hole was burning, stretched around a cock that felt impossibly large inside him. The man's spit had not eased the burn very much, and Javert was gasping and helplessly trying to blink back tears. Then, to his horror, he realized that something about the pressure of the huge cock inside him felt pleasurable; something hot and breathtaking shot up his spine, and with a mortified moan, he felt his thighs spread further, his hips canting just a little.

One of Dubois’s hands slapped his buttocks. “Might be a virgin, but already knows how to take a cock. You know how to pick them, André,” he said.

To Javert's shame, another moan escaped him. Like this, every pounding thrust slid back and forth against something that made him ache with need, his body relaxing more and more, fraction by fraction, until it was no longer quite as painful to take the entire, large cock.

“Very good,” Chabouillet said quietly, his thumb stroking along Javert's cheek. “It might not always be pleasurable to serve your superior but that is no reason not be eager to serve, is it not?”

“Yes, monsieur,” Javert gasped, his cheeks hot and his legs trembling as the Prefect kept filling him with thrust after hard thrust.

Dubois came inside him at last with a groan. The sensation of heat filling him drove new tears to Javert’s eyes, which he manfully tried to blink away with the thoughtful gaze of Chabouillet on him all the while.

When Dubois withdrew, Javert remained on the desk for a moment, breathless and aching, feeling utterly defeated.

How could he have thought that he was better than this? He had known all along what he was— _who_ he was. He was not like these powerful men. And he was not the equal of those clerks he slept and ate and learned alongside either. He should never have forgotten that.

Perhaps, if he had remembered his place, this would not have hurt so much. He should be grateful to his patron for reminding him of his position, and for doing it in a way that allowed Javert to show that he was still eager to serve his master in whatever way was demanded of him.

His limbs aching, he pushed himself upright. Dubois’s hand gave his buttocks another little slap.

“Perhaps you aren't wrong about trying to mix work and pleasure,” he said to Chabouillet. “I admit, I'm curious how your little project will progress.”

“Drop by anytime,” Chabouillet murmured, looking distinctly pleased. “I pride myself on keeping my guests well entertained.”

Dubois narrowed his eyes, ignoring Javert who stood on trembling legs, warm come slowly dripping down his thighs.

“Don't overdo it,” he warned Chabouillet. “I value your input—and your effort to keep up a cordial relationship between us. But I will not be bribed.”

Chabouillet's mouth twitched. “I wouldn't dare,” he said. “Truth be told, I bought the boy for myself. I'm more interested in his training as a clerk. But I knew he would please you. Waste not, want not.”

Dubois scoffed. “We shall see about that—the list of expenses is due in a week. I pray you'll remember that saying when the time comes.”

***

A year passed until he was recalled into Chabouillet’s office. Even though Javert had told himself that he was a slave, and that he had no right to expect more than what he had already been given, he was queasy with dread as he entered his patron’s office.

Surely, to serve Chabouillet himself would not be so bad: his patron was a commanding man with dark hair, a pleasant voice and elegant hands. Furthermore, had Javert not seen the worst of what men might do in his childhood? To belong to Chabouillet was a privilege Javert should be grateful for. To be allowed to serve him was a privilege, too.

And should Chabouillet instead choose to have Javert serve in other, more degrading ways…

It would not do to grow proud, Javert thought, straightening as he saw that Chabouillet was not alone. Javert was a slave. He would do as he was told, and be grateful that his master had sent him to learn, instead of sending him to a brothel.

“Ah, Javert. Come in. You remember Prefect Dubois, of course?”

“Monsieur,” Javert said calmly and bowed deeply, even as dread spread through him once more. Nevertheless, he forced himself to walk closer when being commanded to, remaining calm and still when Dubois’ eyes raked over his body.

He was a slave, he reminded himself once more. Chabouillet had purchased him—and he had been good to him. Chabouillet had given him a chance no other man would have. He owed his patron his absolute obedience. Any misconduct would fall back onto his patron. And as humiliating as it had been to be used by Dubois, Javert would have had it worse in the cheap brothel that would have been his destiny without Chabouillet’s patronage.

And Dubois was the prefect of police. Just like Chabouillet, he had a right to do as he pleased with someone as worthless as Javert. His own feelings did not matter here. But he had promised his patron his obedience, and he would make Chabouillet proud, no matter what was asked of him.

“Your little project. I remember.” Dubois smiled slowly, reaching out with his cane to run the knob at the top down Javert’s chest. “He’s grown a little. I thought you would have gotten rid of him by now.”

“He just finished his training,” Chabouillet said calmly. “I might employ him as a clerk. He’s a hard worker, and dutiful. Perhaps in time, some other use for him will come to mind. Or perhaps the police.”

“I can think of several uses,” Dubois murmured, his smile widening to a smirk. “André, you cannot tell me you bought him as an amusement for your guests. I know your tastes.”

Chabouillet inclined his head. “Just as I know yours. What if I tell you I could find no red-haired boy at the auction?”

“Then I’d call you a liar, my dear André. This one was quite obviously purchased for yourself.”

“Ha.” Chabouillet exhaled, looking pleased. “I haven’t done as much as touched him. Tell the prefect, Javert.”

Javert swallowed, his gaze returning uncertainly to Dubois. “He has not, monsieur le prefet.”

Dubois narrowed his eyes at him. “Do you wish he would?”

Taken aback, Javert stared at him for a moment before he remembered himself, his cheeks flushing as he dropped his eyes to the floor. Was Chabouillet watching him? What answer would please his patron? It was true that Chabouillet had purchased him—but it was also true that he had sent him to school, and that he had not seen him apart from these two summons to his office.

Javert swallowed, clinging desperately to the knowledge that his patron would want him to be truthful. “I do, monsieur.”

It would be better to know what it was his patron wanted from him, he told himself. It had been shameful to submit to Dubois, but he had done as he had been ordered to. Because he had wanted to please his patron. To be told how exactly to please him—surely that would be better than to spend a year among free men, being taught like them and fed and clothed like them, always dreading that at any moment, his patron would recall that the boy he had bought was far beneath such privileges, and would pull him out of that school to earn his keep in some dark corner.

The room was silent. There was still cold sweat trickling down Javert’s back—but at the same time, as humiliating as the thought of his patron bending him over his own desk was, Javert could not help but think that it would be right. It was, after all, what he had been sold for.

“Come here, Javert,” Chabouillet said at last.

When Javert obeyed, he found that his patron had moved his chair back a little. “Down,” Chabouillet demanded, and without a moment’s hesitation, Javert dropped to his knees.

Chabouillet made a pleased little sound. “Obedient. That is what I picked you for.”

“I would do anything monsieur wishes,” Javert dared to say, leaning forward to nuzzle at Chabouillet’s hand almost desperately.

A moment later, that same hand was tightening in his hair. Chabouillet’s other hand unbuttoned his trousers.

“Now I know you have not done this before,” Chabouillet murmured, “but if I feel your teeth, I’ll use my own belt on your backside. You won’t disappoint me, will you, Javert?”

Javert swallowed, his mouth dry. Freed from its confines, his master’s prick jutted forward, large and heavy.

“I won’t, monsieur,” he said, and then the hand tightened in his hair until he had no choice but to lean forward.

He had seen such a thing happen before. He knew how it worked; no one who grew up as he did would be mystified by such a demand. Still, it was true that he had never done it before. As he opened his mouth, only for Chabouillet’s prick to impatiently slide inside, his stomach twisted, dread and shame mixing with that old, defeated certainty that this was right. This was what he had been born for, and even with an indulgent master like Chabouillet, he could never escape such a thing.

“Good boy,” Chabouillet murmured warmly, his other hand curving gently against Javert’s cheek.

Despite Chabouillet’s kind words, his prick slid mercilessly deeper, filling Javert with the taste and the smell of his patron’s arousal. Javert opened his mouth as wide as he could, moaning helplessly around the thick column that filled his mouth, and Chabouillet groaned in appreciation, sliding out a little only to push back inside.

“Like this,” Chabouillet groaned, his thumb sliding along Javert’s lips. “Good.”

Javert swallowed desperately, tears pricking in his eyes. His jaw ached, but he forced himself to take him deeper, tears spilling over at last when Chabouillet’s hand tightened in his hair, holding him in place for a thrust that made him choke.

Chabouillet drew back a little so that he could breathe, and then he thrust in again, the motion slow but relentless, Javert’s throat working to somehow accommodate the impossible girth.

It ached, and he hated the way he could not stop the tears from running—but now Chabouillet’s fingers loosened a little, petting him instead. Obediently, Javert held himself in place as his patron made use of his mouth until at last, Chabouillet’s hand tightened again.

That was all the warning Javert received before Chabouillet’s release filled his mouth, a thick, bitter liquid he desperately swallowed down.

Chabouillet sighed when he withdrew. Javert’s throat was sore, his jaw aching, and he wanted to throw up. Instead, he moved forward, pressing his lips clumsily to his patron’s still impressive shaft, licking it clean until Chabouillet made a soft, approving sound of pleasure. Once more his patron’s fingers moved through his hair, playing with the strands as Javert’s tongue lapped up the last remaining traces of his spend.

Chabouillet’s hand was heavy. Something about the sensation of those elegant fingers threading through his hair, gently brushing his nape every now and then, made Javert shiver with an emotion that was not quite pleasure. But it made him feel warm, the dread and shame in his stomach receding a little—and when Chabouillet’s thumb ran affectionately down his cheek again, even the task he had been given no longer seemed quite so abhorrent.

Javert licked and nuzzled for as long as he was allowed, his heartbeat calming until at last, it seemed almost pleasurable to bury his nose in his patron’s wiry curls, breathing in the heavy musk of his arousal while Chabouillet petted him with a touch that was far kinder than anything he had ever known.

“Very good, Javert,” Chabouillet finally murmured, and there was a small smile on his face. “Very good. You may rise again.”

Javert’s knees ached when he stood, his lips swollen and sore.

“I still think you would have been served better to buy a trained sex slave, and pay for another clerk.”

Chabouillet’s lips twitched. Javert did not dare to move when both pairs of eyes came to rest on him once more.

“Perhaps it simply pleases me to mix pleasure and work,” Chabouillet said mildly. “Is that not reason enough?”

Dubois slowly shook his head. Javert forced himself to hold still when the prefect reached out with his cane once more, the knob tracing up his thigh.

“What little charm he has right now is all his youth,” the prefect muttered. “You won’t be able to sell his favors for much longer.”

In response, Chabouillet laughed. “My dear Louis-Nicolas,” he said, “there are charms that work even on men who can buy all the beauty they desire. Especially on them, perhaps. For there is an obedience that can’t be bought. And there is a surrender that comes of the soul that is sweeter to taste than the kisses of your latest mistress. And you want to please me, Javert, don’t you?”

Javert licked his lips, his heart racing. On his tongue, he could still taste the salt of Chabouillet’s release—but even so, his body felt strangely warm and relaxed, enveloped in the warmth of his patron’s affectionate touch.

“With all my heart, monsieur,” he said softly, and when Chabouillet’s eyes looked on him with pleasure, a shiver ran through him, and he knew he would kneel eagerly again, the next time his master called for him.


End file.
